Soxtoberfest

It's Friday, which means it's Hair Band Friday here in my office. Currently I'm doing a line of coke off a stripper's ass to Def Leppard's debut album, "On Through the Night," AC/DC's debut album, "High Voltage," and The Scorpions' non-debut album, "Greatest Hits." Klaus Meine's brand of German-accented crooning is enough to make any woman want some wurst. And what an appropriate way to kick off the weekend in which my Oktoberfest party will be taking place.

Well, my deepest, darkest suspicions were confirmed last night on The OC: Dean Hess is taking the skin boat to Tuna Town with Taylor Townsend. That guy chugs cock. And Taylor, while hot, is a filthy little queefmonger*. What's with that Jeff Spicoli look-alike at Newport Union HS trying to mack on Marissa? Doesn't he know that he already has a hot girlfriend (albeit with teeth that could bite through a cinder block)? And doesn't he know that Ryan's blind rage and fists of fury have sent many a young man home in a bodybag? At least we finally saw what Jeri Ryan's character, Charlotte, was up to this whole time. Faking alcoholism to try to bilk Kirsten out of several million dollars because Charlotte's banging a flower delivery guy. Bravo. But now that Kirsten's pops died broke and Kirsten is selling off the assets of the Newport Group, how in the world will Charlotte and her flower-delivering boy toy get the money they so desperately don't deserve? Again, most importantly, now that Julie Cooper-Nichol has been kicked out of her house and had most of her possessions repossessed, will she please turn back to stag flicks as a main source of income? Thanks to the MLB playoffs, we will have 4 or 5 weeks to ponder these questions.

White Sox fans can now breathe a collective sigh of relief. Congrats to the South Side Hit Men for clinching the AL Central. The only thing they have left to play for is the best record in the AL, which they will get as long as they don't get swept by the Indians this weekend and the Yankees don't sweep the Red Sox. Now if only the White Sox could win their first playoff series since 1917. That would be nice. The array of pictures below is pretty good. You got the team posing for a post-champagne-soaking picture (by the way, the AL Central champs shirts are by far the best looking divisional champs shirts I've ever seen). Then there's El Duque and Jose Contreras celebrating the fact that they're not in a Cuban cemetery. Paul Konerko, looking very homeless and bird-like, celebrates the big win. An unsuspecting Freddy Garcia cringes as John Garland and an unseen Scott Podsednik pull the old "pour champagne down the back as a diversion for a cock punching" trick. And what Sox division championship would be complete without Mayor Daley sporting his Sox pride, laughing his ass of because the Sox victory will result in his friends getting hooked up with cushy city contracts? Go Go Sox!!


*Note: I am going to try to bring the word "queef" back to the common usage it enjoyed in its heyday of the late 1980s. The wife and I were having your standard pillow talk last night and we started talking about how we never hear anyone use "queef" anymore. Both of us thought it was a damn shame. Such a great word for such a rare, but utterly vile, deed. Queef!